


On Tragedy, On Attraction

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, First Kiss, Henry Pov, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, discussion of suicidal thoughts, mentions of their time on the Beagle, the inevitable Getting Together Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28822233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: John has a new book for Henry: Hamlet.Death and love are not so far apart.Written for Bridglar Week Day 1 "when I was on Old England shore/Letters on the English by Voltaire" and for The Terror Bingo prompt 'London'. I saw these as urging to write about the beginning of their  landlocked romance.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Comments: 21
Kudos: 36
Collections: Bridglar Week 2021, The Terror Bingo (2020)





	On Tragedy, On Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> basically i read that part in the book where Bridgens used to think himself like Hamlet and it made me super emo, but I am also always consumed by the need for Bridgens and Peglar to be in love, happy and to kiss, so this is both those thoughts combined

Henry has never thought to end his own life. Not in the squalls of illness or the interminable doldrums life occasionally threw him into. This did not mean he was not wracked by the inevitable ups and downs of mood that plague every man. In his darkest moments he had thought of it, of the freedom of death, but then there had always been something to draw him back. Rose had been one thing. The sea another. Now here was John Bridgens.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them.”

He tries to give the words the proper weight as he reads aloud. John had explained their meaning to help him, for one could divine forms better if you anticipated the context, had explained long ago that was how the fastest readers consumed their texts.

“That sounds terribly difficult,” Henry had said, the heat of the Galapagos penetrating the cabin, making him sweat lightly under his shirt, “but I would like to try to get there.”

“You’re a very brave man undertaking what you are,” John had replied, “I shall not press you to reach that point. I do believe reading at such a rapid rate, you lose quite a bit of the feeling of the piece, not given time to savor it.”

“But I’ve seen you do it, finish two books in a week even with all duties, that seems terribly fast to me.”

John shook his head with a smile. “Perhaps I am of the higher than average, but that does not mean I support gobbling one’s food. Let us begin again. Reading at any speed, as long as it can bring you joy, has value.”

“I hope so,” Henry sighs, “I admit I do not feel it, not yet anyways, but I do want it. To be able to read. I have a book of poetry I bought Rose when we were courting. I had to ask the man at the shop to help me pick one, but it was worth the embarrassment. She did like it so. I’d like to read it to her.”

“That seems like a sensible goal for you.”

“And what is your goal in helping me?”

John had started then, perhaps it would have been imperceptible if they were not so close together in the space of John’s berth, but Henry saw how the older man’s hands receded from the book they shared. It pained him. Had he not yet proven the pureness of his character? Did John fear his intentions with the question? He knew what they said of John Bridgens, but surely he did not feel he could unintentionally intimidate Henry. He must know Henry trusted him.

Then again, what did trust mean to a man like John Bridgens, a man who relied on the goodwill of others to maintain his position, on every man looking the other way.

Henry wonders if John has scars from the lash. He does not want to see, but he still wonders. Pain that great, he’d seen men beg for death at it, he knows John would not have begged for mercy. Strong as an ox, tattoos rippling over muscle, long beard and hair peaking the hint of grey as he passed fifty, he was an old god in an apron. Henry would think him born from some ancient city, brought to life from rough hewn stone, with that deep voice to match. Although Henry is twenty years the steward’s junior he can imagine John persisting like this forever, surpassing Henry’s own form as it inevitably warps and wastes with time. John might change too, in small increments, perhaps more lines about the face or head turned fully to white, but still as solid and dependable and present, and as he himself would die as most things must, John would not, could not. Hardship had clearly touched the man, but he had absorbed it, been solidified by it. Henry cannot imagine John seized by the desperation towards suicide. What would press John Bridgens to the brink? Surely nothing.

To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.”

In the present, Henry continues on as Hamlet. He scrounges for some old sentiment, his own past misery, to act the part. John had explained it was to be performed. Yet, he finds the exercise difficult, as satisfaction and contentment make him languorous. John hums in encouragement as Henry reads. The fire cackles. Henry could not be happier anywhere else on earth. He is hot and alive.

“For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin?”

“How do you think Hamlet feels?” John asks. “I admit to a certain understanding. I used to think myself a Prince of Denmark. You may laugh, but even I was young once and full of overwhelming emotions and ideas.”

“I think you still are, you just hide it better.”

“Well, I’m happy to have moved on from those of Hamlet’s ilk.”

“Don’t say such things. I’d be distraught without you.”

“You’d be just as happy, ignorant to a world with me in it, but here I am nonetheless.”

“John, stop. I shall leave.” He stands to make his point and John draws him down in apology, taking his hands in his.

“I don’t want to read Hamlet anymore,” Henry says, “It is too dark. I do not like to think of death, anyone else’s or my own.”

“Are you scared of death, Henry?”

“That-no. I don’t think so. Not at least this ‘undiscovered country,’” Henry replies. “I’m afraid of death for the usual reasons.”

“Those being?”

“Losing yourself, leaving loved ones . . .”

He pauses. He makes a decision. John still holds his hands.

“I’d like to go to bed,” Henry says.

“Oh, I was not aware you were tired. I’m sorry. Let me get my coat and I’ll take you home.”

“No, I mean. I’d like to go to bed with you.”

He kisses him. Brief and chaste and filled with meaning.

““Henry . . .” John whispers as they part. His breath is hoarse, as if he has forgotten how to breathe.

“I don’t, I don’t mean to be made into a woman. I would just like to go to bed with you. To lie there?” he suggests, suddenly bashful, turning away, but adds: “Together.” He cannot back out of this now. John caresses his cheek and Henry leans into it, grasps his hand in his own, and kisses finger by finger. John lets this proceed with a look of astonished reverence.

They prepare for bed in silence and settle under the cover facing each other. The bed is small and to fit their bodies must touch, the shift of the cloth between the shared heat making Henry heady. He might be delirious.

“What would you like to do now?” John says, a hint of humor now peeking forth in a smile. Henry inches forward until their noses are touching, and then he kisses John again and it is glorious, it is perfect, it is slow and loving and purposeful.

Henry knows now this had been his goal, not that blasted book of poems, not to read two books a week (which he still could not do), but to be wanted by John Bridgens was something worth living for. His heart races as the kiss deepens and he pulls away as a sudden arousal pools low in him. It is not a surprise at this juncture, perhaps, but he cannot confront that familiar desire now. He is too in awe at the newness of their entanglement to complicate it yet. 

“What would you like?” John asks, so careful, so tender. An arm encircles Henry’s shoulders and it is so easy to rest his head in the crook of John’s neck. “I will do whatever you wish.”

“I wish . . . “ he tries to corral his brain, to explain that he would like to stay like this forever, tucked in John’s embrace. They need not move ever again. “Can we sleep, John?”

“Yes.” 

**Author's Note:**

> First Bridglar fic hope it is okay! Comments and kudos always greatly appreciated.
> 
> You can follow me on [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines) and [Tumblr](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com)


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